


Home Is Where the Horizon Is

by KitsJay



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, arthur is awesome, cabin pressure meme, martin is broke, so much sappiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin loses his flat and begins living in Gertie. The other crewmembers find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Where the Horizon Is

No one really questioned him being there so late, not even Carolyn, who normally had the same suspicious instincts that guided lions to wounded gazelles on the Serengeti. Martin usually worked late, toiling over SOPs and clucking over Douglas’s flight logs and generally spending entirely more time over paperwork than was strictly healthy. 

“Martin,” Douglas said with a long-suffering sigh, seeing his captain hunched over a stack of papers, “To paraphrase somebody or other, ‘one’ hour is the correct dosage of paperwork for the adult human male.”

“I know, I’m just—” Martin looked up suddenly. “Wait, I said that!”

“Oh? It was almost clever, so I naturally assumed it couldn’t have been you.”

“Thank you, Douglas,” Martin said frostily. 

Douglas leaned nonchalantly against the wall, twirling his cap on one finger of his left hand. It looked effortless and suave in Douglas’s graceful grasp, but Martin knew that if he were to try it, he’d look like a bloody idiot. He sighed. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” 

“Like where?” Martin blinked, honestly baffled.

“Oh, I don’t know, what’s a young captain, fit and dashing, normally do on a Friday night?” he hinted broadly.

Martin frowned. “Flight simulations?”

Douglas stared at him before letting out a long sigh, one which managed to pack a novel of disappointment into it. “Never mind, Martin. Enjoy your paperwork.” With one final wave, he disappeared, presumably home. Arthur and Carolyn had left earlier. Gertie should have felt empty, perhaps even a little spooky, but instead it felt familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

He hadn’t meant to stay this long. After his landlord had thrown him out for not paying his rent the third month in a row, he had sat down and evaluated his options, limited though they were by the fact that his pockets were unbearably light at the moment. Option 1: He could search for a new flat, though this was hampered by the fact that he had no money and no charm to convince a new landlord that he could, eventually, pay it. Option 2: Live in his van; not impossible, but certainly not comfortable either. Or practical, he acknowledged. The van wasn’t really designed for a grown man to be living out of for any length of time. Option 3: Talk to Carolyn about actually getting paid. The problem with Option 3 was that it required him to swallow what little pride he had and — honestly — was _all_ he had left at the moment and also required him to actually _talk_ to Carolyn, which was a daunting prospect in itself.

The first time it really had been an accident. They had just come back from a run to Denver, Colorado and everyone was preparing to go home, anxious to be back in their own warm beds, particularly as the hotel in Denver neglected to inform them that the heating was not working at the moment. In any case, they hadn’t gotten much sleep, shivering and miserable as they were, and while everyone else had comfortable homes to go to, Martin couldn’t bear the thought of another chilly night in his van. He had stayed behind as long as he could, taking advantage of the coffee in the galley and catching up on paperwork when his eyes must have slid shut and he had fallen asleep. The next morning, he woke up early to find cheerful beams of daylight streaming in and a pleasant feeling that he finally was able to identify as contentment. For the first time in a week, he felt well-rested. 

And so it was with a strange, awkward embarrassment that he manufactured reasons to stay behind later than the others—revising the procedures, checking to make certain everything complied with regulations, reviewing new regulations—so that he could curl up under one of the thin, scratchy blankets and let the sounds of the airport, never quite silent even at night, soothe him to sleep. The insistent voice that constantly nagged him how he was supposed to receive any clients, should they ever re-emerge from wherever they had all gone off to, without a phone, how he was going to pay for a flat, finally would quiet enough that Martin could drift off into peaceful oblivion.

Of course, Martin should have known right then that it was too good to last.

 

“Martin?” 

Martin blinked owlishly, struggling to tear himself away from his dream of swooping through the air in dizzying circles. What was Douglas doing in his flat? No, wait, he didn’t have a flat anymore, he—Martin bolted upright, the blanket falling in a discarded heap at his feet. Douglas was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. Martin could feel his face heating up, his heart beating faster in mortification as he struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for being here.

“Douglas,” he said in a voice high enough to earn him a soprano role at Covent Garden. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same,” Douglas drawled, casting a pointed look at the blanket and then at Martin’s cheek. He raised a hand, finding the skin strangely rough and realised that he was probably sporting a very convincing imprint of the weave of the seat cushion on his face right now. He fought the urge to groan. 

“I came early,” Martin lied, “I was tired, though, so I just thought a little nap wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

One look at Douglas told him that his first officer was not buying his story; in fact, he was looking like he wondered where he had gone wrong in his lessons to take Martin under his wing and teach him the finer points of lying. Martin’s heart sank somewhere into his stomach.

“Martin,” Douglas said sternly. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

“No, I’m not,” Martin said. He felt like the floor had suddenly turned into quicksand and he was already in up to his knees. “I mean, it’s a uniform. They all look alike.”

Douglas crossed his arms over his chest. “Really.”

“Yes,” Martin lifted his chin defiantly. It kept him from looking down to see the line of quicksand rising around his thighs.

“Remarkable. All of your uniforms come with the same stain on the left cuff where you spilled your coffee yesterday?”

His heart made a strange plopping sound as it settled in the bottom of his shoes. 

“Now that the increasingly more desperate attempts to convince me that you were not, in fact, sleeping on Gertie last night are over,” Douglas paused, raising his eyebrows as if to confirm that they were finished. Martin nodded weakly. “Good. In that case, perhaps we should move on to the more interesting question of _why_ you’re sleeping here.”

Martin collapsed into a seat, groaning miserably into his hands. There was a slight hesitation, then heavy footsteps approached him before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he found Douglas looking at him with an expression very near to concern. 

“What’s going on, Martin?”

He really, desperately wanted to tell someone, Martin realised with a shock. He stared up at Douglas’s patient face with wide eyes. Like a balloon losing all its air, the words spilled out of him in a rush, tumbling over each other and growing muddled. He told Douglas about the way business had dried up and practically disappeared, about the way he had to cut back on luxuries, then necessities. He told him about smuggling the shampoos and soaps from the hotels they stayed in for overnight trips, because every little bit counted and if he couldn’t afford three square meals a day, he could at least look presentable. He let himself be pettily, irrationally angry at his landlord, even though he knew very well it wasn’t the man’s fault that he hadn’t been able to pay the rent in three months, but he was pacing about the small space and he wanted so much to be mad at _somebody_ , if only for a little while. And he finally collapsed into the seat like the only thing that had been keeping him upright were the worries holding his spine straight and muscles tense that no one else could see.

Douglas was quiet in his seat, and had Martin been in any condition to notice, he would have made a quick quip about the rare event. As it was, he let himself slump forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head against his linked hands. A warm weight settled on his back and he nearly jumped as Douglas began rubbing his back in comforting circles. He didn’t need it, he wasn’t a child, after all, Martin stubbornly reminded himself, but… there was no harm in enjoying the contact for a little while. He relaxed into it as something inside him eased.

“How long ago were you thrown out?” Douglas asked, still absently rubbing his back.

“Two weeks,” Martin said ruefully. “I haven’t had a chance—Well, I mean, I don’t—“

Douglas was nodding, waving his free hand dismissively in the air. “Yes, I understand.” He suddenly looked up as if realising something. “What did you do with your things?”

Martin felt himself flushing once again and he stared at the floor between his feet. Arthur had missed a spot, he noticed, noting some crumbs finely ground into the fibres of the carpet. 

“Martin?”

“I had to get rid of most of it,” he admitted. At Douglas’s look, he hastened to reassure him. “I didn’t have that much to begin with, honestly. Everything else I stored in my van.”

“Speaking of which, why did you not stay in your van? I mean, what you should have done was talk to me or Carolyn, and don’t think you will be escaping a conversation on why you did not,” Douglas pinned him with a stern look, “but surely that would have been preferable to Gertie.”

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Martin defended his precious aeroplane. 

Douglas raised an eyebrow, but let it pass without further comment. “Well?”

Martin sighed. “She’s larger for one thing,” he tried, but Douglas looked determined to wait him out. He finally admitted, “She’s… comforting. You know, I think I spent more time in her than I did in my old flat anyway? I might as well have been living here, honestly, before I even started sleeping here. And, and she’s safe. My old flat always felt… well, like a flat.”

“Flats often do,” Douglas murmured.

Martin shook his head impatiently, struggling to explain. “I mean, some places, you can walk in and they feel like home. And others you never can. They always feel temporary, like you’re just waiting for something better to come along, or they’re just waiting for you to move on, and you can never settle in, not really, and my flat always felt like that. Gertie feels like home.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, before Douglas’s hand left his back as he stood and stretched. Martin shoved aside the small emptiness that bloomed in his chest at the loss of the reassuring touch. He looked up, knowing his eyes probably looked huge and scared, but unable to hide the panic that threatened to well up again. “You won’t tell Carolyn, will you?”

“Martin,” Douglas began reluctantly.

“She’d charge me rent or something,” Martin pleaded with him. “Please, Douglas.”

“I won’t tell her,” Douglas gave in. “On one condition—you can stay with me, or I’ll pay for a hotel. You can’t stay on this plane forever, Martin.”

Martin narrowly restrained himself from throwing his arms around Douglas’s neck. He settled for nodding fervently and shaking Douglas’s hand. “Thank you, Douglas.”

“Don’t mention it,” Douglas said. “Now, if I don’t miss my guess, and I never do, our illustrious leader and intrepid flight attendant will here in any moment, so you may want to straighten up and get rid of all the evidence.”

Martin watched him disappear into the cockpit before shaking himself and folding the blanket as neatly as he was able and stowing it away. The remains of his meagre dinner disappeared likewise into the bin and cabinets. He took a quick glance around, satisfied that all traces of his night’s rest were gone, and just in time. The faint sounds of squabbling reached his ears, then Carolyn’s exasperated voice reached him.

“I don’t _care_ what Douglas told you, Arthur, there are no such things as turtle farms.”

“But Mum!”

“No, it is far too early to have these sorts of conversations.” Carolyn appeared, looking weary but as neatly put together as always. Arthur bounded behind her with his usual limitless energy, waving cheerfully when he caught sight of Martin. He brushed past him on the way to the galley.

“Hello, Skip!”

“Arthur,” Martin greeted him with a genuine smile. “Carolyn.”

“Martin,” Carolyn said. “May I safely assume that your copilot has not arrived?”

“You may not,” Douglas’s deep voice came from the front of the plane. “I’m wounded that you think so little of my work ethic, Carolyn.”

“Ha! I could only think little of it if you had one to begin with,” Carolyn said waspishly. 

“Hey, Skip, what time did you get here?” Arthur asked innocently. 

Martin briefly panicked, but Douglas gestured encouragingly behind Arthur and Carolyn, prompting him to speak. “Uh, early.”

“Yeah, but how early?” Arthur persisted.

“Um, I don’t know, five or so?” Martin said desperately.

Carolyn’s manicured eyebrows rose. “Five o’clock? I must say, your initiative is admirable. Particularly as we’re on standby today.”

Martin drew himself up to his full height, which was, admittedly, not that impressive. “A captain must always be punctual, regardless of the nature of the mission.”

Carolyn’s lips twitched up at ‘mission’, but she let it go. She must have been in a good mood, if she didn’t tease him mercilessly for assuming that their tiny air-dot did anything so impressive as to garner the description of ‘mission’. 

“Wow, Skip!” Arthur said brightly, sounding impressed. Martin shifted nervously. It didn’t take much to impress Arthur, but even he normally required _something_ first. “You must be a champion coffee drinker!”

Martin’s stomach briefly considered trying out for Cirque de Soleil, judging by the acrobatic flips it was performing. “What?” he croaked.

“Well, Mum had me inventory the food in the galley on that trip back from Oslo, and the coffee’s been disappearing like mad! You must have been getting here early every morning to go through that much.”

Arthur’s brilliant smile was absolutely guileless, but Carolyn’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion.

“Really? So motivated, Martin!” Carolyn said, and there was a note in her voice that made Martin feel like a very small mouse facing down a bored cat. There was always the chance that the cat would let him go, but it wasn’t very likely. “And to think, you’ve been staying so late every night, as well. Why, one would almost assume you lived here. Isn’t that funny?”

“Hilarious,” Douglas interjected dryly. Martin drew in a gasp of sweet air when Carolyn’s attention was momentarily diverted. “Who is this passenger destined never to show up, Carolyn?”

“Oh, no, you won’t get off that easily,” Carolyn shook her finger and pushed past Douglas to where the blankets were kept. “Aha!” 

She pulled out the one Martin had just folded. There was no way she could tell them apart, Martin reassured himself. They were all the same and it wasn’t as if he had embroidered, ‘Martin was here!’ on the corner or anything. Carolyn wasn’t a witch, with magical powers that let her know when certain crew members, down on their luck, were having to resort to extreme—

“You slept here!” Carolyn whirled on Martin accusingly.

Carolyn was clearly a witch, with magical powers.

“Carolyn, please, I can explain,” Martin swallowed around the lump which gathered in his throat. He couldn’t be fired from this, too. It was all he had left. He felt a little desperate, enough not to notice Douglas waving frantically at him to stop talking. “I just stayed here for a little while, until I could—”

“Martin, you _idiot_ ,” Douglas said. “She was bluffing.”

“I was indeed,” Carolyn said smugly. “Never play poker, Martin.” Her slight smile faded. “Now why don’t you tell me what you are doing sleeping in my aeroplane for the past week?”

“Two weeks, Mum,” Arthur corrected, doing some quick arithmetic for average coffee drank per day by one captain. Douglas and Martin favoured him with an annoyed glare and he wilted under it. “Was that a secret?”

“Not anymore,” Martin muttered. 

“Two weeks,” Carolyn said sharply. “Explain.”

Martin sighed. “I lost my flat.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Martin, but I do hope you realise that there is a whole city full of flats, some of which I’m sure are much more comfortable than our modest work environment.”

He could feel his face turning red, the tips of his ears burning brightly. He felt suddenly light-headed and nauseous. It was a familiar feeling, since he started school and the bullies had given him his first taste of mortification. He had forgotten how it tasted metallic and sour. He mumbled, “I don’t have the money.”

“What?” Carolyn said. “Speak up.”

“I said, I don’t have the money,” Martin repeated. His chest seized up as he said it, and that was familiar, too, that feeling like his voice was trying to strangle itself. “And business hasn’t been going well, so I just thought, you know, for a little while-"

“Oh, Martin.”

His head shot up at the strain of compassion in Carolyn’s voice. She was staring at him, but instead of the irritation he was expecting, or even worse, the anger, Carolyn just looked tired and affectionate. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What?” Martin managed.

“Why didn’t you say something, you idiot boy?” Carolyn said, but her voice had a warm maternal tone in it despite the sharp words. “You’ve been staying on Gertie and drinking the coffee, what about everything else?”

Martin gaped. “What?” he repeated dumbly.

Carolyn snapped her fingers. “Your things, food, necessities, Martin!”

“His things are in his van,” Douglas answered for him, shooting a warning look at Martin. 

“But food? Can I expect food to be missing from our larder as well?” 

“None of the food is missing,” Arthur said. 

“So what have you been eating?” Carolyn asked impatiently. “You have been eating haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Martin protested. 

The three of them waited, staring at him until finally they realised nothing more was forthcoming. “Well?” Douglas finally prompted.

Martin felt suddenly like he was on trial. Or explaining to his parents why his teacher had called to let them know that instead of analysing Shakespeare’s sonnets, he had been caught drawing aeroplanes all over his notebook. He shrank into himself. “I had some food left over, from my flat,” he said evasively.

“Hm,” Douglas said, clearly planning on pursuing the question with his normal indefatigable tenacity.

“Green beans?” Arthur said, holding up the empty tin that Martin had swept into the bin a few minutes earlier. “What else did you have, Skip?”

There was an awkward silence. 

“They’re very healthy,” Martin said after a moment, his voice defensive. “Most people don’t get their daily recommended allotment of vegetables, you know-"

“Martin, please tell me that you’ve been eating something other than green beans for the past two weeks,” Carolyn said. From the weary resignation in her voice, Martin had a feeling that she already knew he couldn’t do that without lying, which, judging by today, he was very bad at doing. Or everyone he worked with were mind-readers. And witches. And… Martin looked at Arthur, who graced him with a smile, then suddenly wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close into a hug. Well, he wasn't sure what Arthur was, but it didn't stop him from awkwardly returning the sudden embrace.

Martin stared at him in shock until Arthur shrugged, wonderfully, innocently unselfconscious. “You looked like you needed it, Skip.”

He felt a familiar burning behind his eyes, like they were suddenly as dry as the desert, and he rubbed at them impatiently, willing himself not to cry in front of this wonderful, insane motley family he had managed to find. 

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Carolyn said, sniffing. “I’ve had quite enough sentimentality for the day. Martin, you of course cannot sleep here anymore-”

“He’s staying with me from now on, Carolyn,” Douglas interjected. 

“And I’ll see what I can do about giving you a—well, a loan, for now,” Carolyn said, wincing almost apologetically. “I’m sorry, Martin, but there really isn’t any money to pay you…”

“No, that’s fine, Carolyn,” Martin assured her. “I’ll make do. Work has to pick up soon enough.”

“And he won’t starve, at least,” Arthur said brightly. “I’ll cook for you, Skip! I can bring dinners by and such until you get back on your feet.”

Martin blanched; he’d never get back on them if he had to eat Arthur’s cooking. 

“Well, we’ll work out the details later,” Carolyn said, and Martin desperately hoped that she had a plan for distracting her son from his brilliant plan. While he appreciated the spirit behind the offer, he was too young to die. “Douglas, I noticed that we seem to not have a passenger yet, so I was thinking what a lovely opportunity this would be to catch up on your flight logs.” 

Douglas winced, then bowed mockingly. “Of course, Madame.”

“And you, Arthur, there seems to be crumbs in the carpet. Please get to hoovering right away, if you please.”

“Righto, Mum,” Arthur said with a sloppy salute. 

“And Martin,” Carolyn cast about for something for him to do. Despite the fact that he had been using it as an excuse to stay late, Martin actually had done most of his paperwork and some of Douglas’s, too. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, see if you can’t dig up some biscuits for all of us. I’m quite famished.”

“But, Mum, we had breakfast—”

A quick glare from his mother shut Arthur up as he went back to inspecting the floor for missed spots.

“Carolyn,” Martin said hesitantly. “Thank you.”

“Whatever for?” Carolyn said airily. “Now chop, chop! We haven’t got all day.”

Grinning, Martin began rummaging through the cupboards. He began to think that maybe it wasn’t Gertie herself that was so comforting, but the people who inhabited her day in and day out; they were the ones who made it feel like home.


End file.
